


BANG

by 13thDoctor



Category: The Following
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Canon, Angst, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Cults, Dark, Drunk Sex, F/M, False Identity, Guns, Implied Relationships, Knives, M/M, Murder, Psychological Horror, Secret Relationship, Serial Killers, Torture, follower!Mike
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:00:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13thDoctor/pseuds/13thDoctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan Hardy is the FBI's most valued- and most damaged- asset in their team against serial killer Joe Carroll and his massive cult. He prefers work over sleep, and liquor over love. Then he meets the new agent, Mike Weston, and his carefully built walls come crashing down. He begins to trust, and maybe even love again. But Mike may not be the person he claims to be, and as Ryan gets closer to catching Joe, the relationship spirals dangerously out of control...</p>
            </blockquote>





	BANG

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE 11/25/16: This story has been officially abandoned by me as a work. I will no longer write for it, but I will leave it up. Thank you.

_" It was night, and the rain fell; and falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood." _

_Silence- A Fable, Edgar Allan Poe_

_  
_ The man stared at the pavement, counting each loose pebble as he attempted to control his thoughts. Slowly, he pressed his palm to the ground, numb to the sharp texture. The black asphalt was covered in cracks and imperfections, characteristic of an abandoned parking garage. He ran his hand over it, chuckling.

The figure lifted the aperture and smiled, straight white teeth bright against the darkness. He admired the shape of it, the way the scarlet liquid covered it and ran over it in warm streams. He had cleaned his hands especially for the occasion so that the blood would not be mixed with dirt; its beauty would remain pure against his skin.

The corpse was even more beautiful. The boy was barely eighteen, and still retained the attractive attributes of youth. His skin was pale, turned ghostly by death, and covered in what seemed like miles of black tattoos. The slithering black ink contrasted magnificently with the rivers of blood spilling from equally long knife wounds. The eyes had been removed prior to death, of course. They were discarded along with the murder weapon, buried in the wall of a house miles away. The man sighed and stepped back to admire his work.

His victim was draped over the hood of an FBI van, wrists tied to the mirrors to keep it in place. Most of the clothes had been removed in order to the display the carvings on the flesh. The body had been treated with the utmost care.

The man looked up at the stars, lost in the ecstasy of it all. The pools of blood around the vehicle soaked into his boots, and he dropped to his knees in the mess, overcome.

From behind him, Joe Carroll clapped. “Well done,” he praised. “Oh, this is _gorgeous._ Well done!”

The man smiled again.

 

…

 

Only six miles away from the brutal and unexpected murder, Ryan Hardy was having a drink. Rather, it was his fifth glass of scotch, but if anyone had asked, it was his first. He nursed the drink carefully, admiring the way the amber liquid slid around and through the ice before each sip. The alcohol burned down his throat and he grunted happily at the familiar feeling.

Ryan leaned over the side table and poured himself another round. The bottle was almost empty, and what kind of person would he be if he neglected to finish it?

He wore grey boxers and nothing else, and he contemplated undressing completely as he watched Molly sleep in his bed. The ‘occasional sex’ agreement was working well for the pair, but tonight she had just decided to stay over, and Ryan was left drunk and unsatisfied. Sometimes Ryan remembered that she would always want more, that it was his fault she had been denied a healthy and stable relationship.

So he gulped the scotch down and the guilt vanished with it.

 

…

 

“Are you sure they’ll find it?”

“We’ve left a most delightful trail of breadcrumbs. They’d have to be blind not to follow.”

Roderick laughed, a sputtering, unpleasant sound, splashing his boots in the blood like a child in a rain puddle. “Sometimes you overestimate the FBI, Joe.” His drawl was thick that night, heightened by the thrill.

“I’ll make sure they find it,” the tattooed boy’s murder added. He glared at Roderick, and the look was visible even in the black night.

The sheriff’s hand inched toward the gun he had in his belt, and the figure shifted to a crouch, ready to fight.

“Boys, boys,” Carroll soothed. His accent was heavy that night, as well. “This is a victory; a time for celebration. Don’t ruin it with a mere brawl.”

“Yeah, it’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye,” the man responded dryly.

“Or two,” Roderick offered. The glint in his eyes was unmistakable- humor and desire and maniacal, primal _need._

The three men shared a laugh, the tension fading from the air with each breath. They settled back into their separate stances, perfecting the crime scene for their friends at the Bureau. Every detail needed to be pristine; every speck of scarlet traced back exactly where they wanted it.

“Truly, boys,” Carroll began once they had finished. They quieted immediately. “Such a breathtaking scene has no room for those childish antics. Please reserve yourselves until we are on less sacred ground.

Roderick opened his mouth to speak, and Carroll glanced at his protégée, curious as to what impulsive comment on Roderick’s part would send the man after him. “S’kay, boss; we were just kidding around. My buddy likes to tumble with me ‘cause he can’t just admit he wants me to fuck ‘im. Ain’t that right?” He sneered, eager to get a rise out of him.

The man snarled and stood, his next words controlled and nonchalant.  “I’ve told you, you’re not my type.” He shrugged and paced over to Roderick, who was staring at him levelly. Suddenly, he whipped another knife out and spat, “Try and I’ll cut your dick off.”

Roderick brought his fist foreword with alarming accuracy, aiming it at the other man’s nose. He caught it immediately, his eyes never leaving Roderick’s. He pulled the blonde’s arm closer and then shoved it behind him, twisting it in a way that made the coward shriek. Joe watched patiently.

“Is that a challenge?” the man asked. His eyes were dark and feral, pupils blown in anticipation of another kill. His body was rigid and muscles taut, braced for another swing or kick.

Roderick grimaced, struggling to free his arm. “I was joking, man. Lemme go.” His body moved uselessly; his attacker was entirely in control.

The man released Roderick and he stumbled backwards, wincing as pain shot up his arm and shoulder. His friend smiled, sharp and sick and sadistic, and forced a chuckle up his throat that made Roderick cringe.

“Funny,” he said. His voice was flat. “I’ve always loved your jokes.” He cocked his head and stared. “I’ll see you tomorrow, _buddy._ ”

He turned and walked the opposite way he had arrived, cleaning the blood off his hands and humming an unknown song.

 

…

 

Ryan woke late in the day, bent uncomfortably in the living room chair. Molly had already left, and she had taken the last remnants of his scotch with her. He grumbled about it as he stumbled to the kitchen, still half asleep and sore everywhere.

He drank a glass of vodka for breakfast and then headed to the bathroom for a shower. The water burned his skin and he sighed into it, relishing the only part of his morning that was ever peaceful.

His routine was simple from that point on. He dressed in the cleanest clothes he could find, often from the night before if they didn’t smell like a bar. Then he went back to the kitchen and had some coffee, which was more liquor than anything else. Next, he worked out, preferring to keep in shape even if he was going to kill himself with alcohol poisoning. Finally, he would slip on the television, and hate himself for every second of it. He watched the news almost religiously, following each FBI case with an obsession that bordered on hysteria. He would never admit that he missed it, but his entire body ached for it. The television was his only connection to his old life.

That morning, Joe Carroll’s face was plastered across the screen on every channel, urging viewers to keep a lookout. Over each unflattering prison photo was a large, bold, black caption that read ‘Serial Killer Escapes from Prison, Murders 5 Guards. HIGH ALERT.’

His phone rang a minute later.

**Author's Note:**

> Written to BANG by The Armchair Cynics


End file.
